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whencyclopedia · 7 months ago

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D-Day was 80 years ago today!

D-Day was the first day of Operation Overlord, the Allied attack on German-occupied Western Europe, which began on the beaches of Normandy, France, on 6 June 1944. Primarily US, British, and Canadian troops, with naval and air support, attacked five beaches, landing some 135,000 men in a day widely considered to have changed history.

Where to Attack?

Operation Overlord, which sought to attack occupied Europe starting with an amphibious landing in northwest France, Belgium, or the Netherlands, had been in the planning since January 1943 when Allied leaders agreed to the build-up of British and US troops in Britain. The Allies were unsure where exactly to land, but the requirements were simple: as short a sea crossing as possible and within range of Allied fighter cover. A third requirement was to have a major port nearby, which could be captured and used to land further troops and equipment. The best fit seemed to be Normandy with its flat beaches and port of Cherbourg.

The Atlantic Wall

The leader of Nazi Germany, Adolf Hitler (1889-1945), called his western line of defences the Atlantic Wall. It had gaps but presented an impressive string of fortifications along the coast from Spain to the Netherlands. Construction of gun batteries, bunker networks, and observation posts began as early as 1942.

Many of the German divisions were not crack troops but inexperienced soldiers, who were spending more time building defences than in vital military training. There was a woeful lack of materials for Hitler's dream of the Atlantic Wall, really something of a Swiss cheese, with some strong areas, but many holes. The German army was not provided with sufficient mines, explosives, concrete, or labourers to better protect the coastline. At least one-third of gun positions still had no casement protection. Many installations were not bomb-proof. Another serious weakness was naval and air support. The navy had a mere 4 destroyers available and 39 E-boats while the Luftwaffe's (German Air Force's) contribution was equally paltry with only 319 planes operating in the skies when the invasion took place (rising to 1,000) in the second week.

Neptune to Normandy

Preparation for Overlord occurred right through April and May of 1940 when the Royal Air Force (RAF) and United States Air Force (USAAF) relentlessly bombed communications and transportation systems in France as well as coastal defences, airfields, industrial targets, and military installations. In total, over 200,000 missions were conducted to weaken as much as possible the Nazi defences ready for the infantry troops about to be involved in the largest troop movement in history. The French Resistance also played their part in preparing the way by blowing up train lines and communication systems that would ensure the defenders could not effectively respond to the invasion.

The Allied fleet of 7,000 vessels of all kinds departed from English south-coast ports such as Falmouth, Plymouth, Poole, Portsmouth, Newhaven, and Harwich. In an operation code-named Neptune, the ships gathered off Portsmouth in a zone called 'Piccadilly Circus' after the busy London road junction, and then made their way to Normandy and the assault areas. At the same time, gliders and planes flew to the Cherbourg peninsula in the west and Ouistreham on the eastern edge of the planned landing. Paratroopers of the 82nd and 101st US Airborne Division attacked in the west to try and cut off Cherbourg. At the eastern extremity of the operation, paratroopers of the 6th British Airborne Division aimed to secure Pegasus Bridge over the Caen Canal. Other tasks of the paratrooper and glider units were to destroy bridges to impede the enemy, hold others necessary for the invasion to progress, destroy gun emplacements, secure the beach exits, and protect the invasion's flanks.

The Beaches

The amphibious attack was set for dawn on 5 June, daylight being a requirement for the necessary air and naval support. Bad weather led to a postponement of 24 hours. Shortly after midnight, the first waves of 23,000 British and American paratroopers landed in France. US paratroopers who dropped near Ste-Mère-Église ensured this was the first French town to be liberated. From 3.00 a.m., air and naval bombardment of the Normandy coast began, letting up just 15 minutes before the first infantry troops landed on the beaches at 6.30 a.m.

The beaches selected for the landings were divided into zones, each given a code name. US troops attacked two, the British army another two, and the Canadian force the fifth. These beaches and the troops assigned to them were (west to east):

Utah Beach - 4th US Infantry Division, 7th US Corps (1st US Army commanded by Lieutenant General Omar N. Bradley)

Omaha Beach - 1st US Infantry Division, 5th US Corps (1st US Army)

Gold Beach - 50th British Infantry Division, 30th British Corps (2nd British Army commanded by Lieutenant-General Miles C. Dempsey)

Juno Beach - 3rd Canadian Infantry Division (2nd British Army)

Sword Beach - 3rd British Infantry Division, 1st British Corps (2nd British Army)

In addition, the 2nd US Rangers were to attack the well-defended Pointe du Hoc between Utah and Omaha (although it turned out the guns had never been installed there), while Royal Marine Commando units attacked targets on Gold, Juno, and Sword.

The RAF and USAAF continued to protect the invasion fleet and ensure any enemy ground-based counterattack faced air attack. As the Allies could put in the air 12,000 aircraft at this stage, the Luftwaffe's aerial fightback was pitifully inadequate. On D-Day alone, the Allied air forces flew 15,000 sorties compared to the Luftwaffe's 100. Not one single Allied aircraft was lost to enemy fire on D-Day.

Packing Normandy

By the end of D-Day, 135,000 men had been landed and relatively few casualties were sustained – some 5,000 men. There were some serious cock-ups, notably the hopeless dispersal of the paratroopers (only 4% of the US 101st Air Division were dropped at the intended target zone), but, if anything, this caused even more confusion amongst the German commanders on the ground as it seemed the Allies were attacking everywhere. The defenders, overcoming the initial handicap that many area commanders were at a strategy conference in Rennes, did eventually organise themselves into a counterattack, deploying their reserves and pulling in troops from other parts of France. This is when French resistance and aerial bombing became crucial, seriously hampering the German army's effort to reinforce the coastal areas of Normandy. The German field commanders wanted to withdraw, regroup and attack in force, but, on 11 June, Hitler ordered there be no retreat.

All of the original invasion beaches were linked as the Allies pushed inland. To aid thousands more troops following up the initial attack, two artificial floating harbours were built. Code-named Mulberries, these were located off Omaha and Gold beaches and were built from 200 prefabricated units. A storm hit on 20 June, destroying the Mulberry Harbour off Omaha, but the one at Gold was still serviceable, allowing some 11,000 tons of material to be landed every 24 hours. The other problem for the Allies was how to supply thousands of vehicles with the fuel they needed. The short-term solution, code-named Tombola, was to have tanker ships pump fuel to storage tanks on shore, using buoyed pipelines. The longer-term solution was code-named Pluto (Pipeline Under the Ocean), a pipeline under the Channel to Cherbourg through which fuel could be pumped. Cherbourg was taken on 27 June and was used to ship in more troops and supplies, although the defenders had sunk ships to block the harbour and these took some six weeks to fully clear.

Operation Neptune officially ended on 30 June. Around 850,000 men, 148,800 vehicles, and 570,000 tons of stores and equipment had been landed since D-Day. The next phase of Overlord was to push the occupiers out of Normandy. The defenders were not only having logistical problems but also command issues as Hitler replaced Rundstedt with Field Marshal Günther von Kluge (1882-1944) and formally warned Rommel not to be defeatist.

Aftermath: The Normandy Campaign

By early July, the Allies, having not got further south than around 20 miles (32 km) from the coast, were behind schedule. Poor weather was limiting the role of aircraft in the advance. The German forces were using the countryside well to slow the Allied advance – countless small fields enclosed with trees and hedgerows which limited visibility and made tanks vulnerable to ambush. Caen was staunchly defended and required Allied bombers to obliterate the city on 7 July. The German troops withdrew but still held one-half of the city. The Allies lost around 500 tanks trying to take Caen, vital to any push further south. The advance to Avranches was equally tortuous, and 40,000 men were lost in two weeks of heavy fighting. By the end of July, the Allies had taken Caen, Avranches, and the vital bridge at Pontaubault. From 1 August, Patton and the US Third Army were punching south at the western side of the offensive, and the Brittany ports of St. Malo, Brest, and Lorient were taken.

German forces counterattacked to try and retake Avranches, but Allied air power was decisive. Through August 1940, the Allies swept southwards to the Loire River from St. Nazaire to Orléans. On 15 August, a major landing took place on the southwest coast of France (French Riviera landings) and Marseille was captured on 28 August. In northern France, the Allies captured enough territory, ports, and airfields for a massive increase in material support. On 25 August, Paris was liberated. By mid-September, the Allied troops in the north and south of France had linked up and the campaign front expanded eastwards pushing on to the borders of Germany. There would be setbacks like Operation Market Garden of September and a brief fightback at the Battle of the Bulge in December 1944, but the direction of the war and ultimate Allied victory was now a question of not if but when.

#dday #dday80 #ww2 #wwii #wwii history

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honest-moth-of-silver-grove · 5 months ago

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Yan! Alucard post season 4 with a targaryen reader and has dragons like daenerys from game of thrones or house of the dragon, how would they meet and interact? Would the first meet when the trio see the dragons flying over the village and think it is a threat or a attack, sorry if I'm ranting I just think the idea has so much potential and I can't write to save my life so I'm passing it to you❤️❤️

A/N: Okay so full disclosure, I’m not the hugest Game of Thrones fan, but I did watch a fair amount of the series (mainly for Khalessi lol, they did her so dirty in the finale!). And sorry for being MIA, just lots of real-life crap I’ve been dealing with.

Yandere Alucard (Post S4) w/ a Targaryen Reader

When our Targaryen reader first hears of a village founded under a famous monster hunter's name, yet supposedly run by the Alucard operated out of Dracula’s castle, she decides she has to see it for herself.

Much like Trevor Belmont, she is the last of her kind, the bloodline ends with her, and as such, the dragon(s) in her possession are her utmost responsibility. If she cannot find someone worthy of continuing the Targaryen line, then she will have to settle for her family’s legacy existing solely as one more relic in the Belmont hold. Without any remaining relatives to marry to keep her lineage pure, she sets atop her noble dragon steed and sets out for Village Belmont, determined to find a worthy successor, and if not, then at the very least, a worthy grave.

When she first flies over the village, it is a cloudy day; her dragon’s looming shadow initially goes unnoticed. But soon enough her dragon’s large wingspan wafts the gray skies away, leaving her and her majestic beast very little coverage.

At first sight of the beast, villagers cry and scream out, as they mistake her dragon companion for yet another wandering night creature, hellbent on eating their children and pillaging their livestock.

They alert Greta, who arrives on the scene at the same time as Alucard, his heightened vampiric senses having heard the loud thwap, thwap of the dragon’s wingspan long before the villagers could see it.

Greta organizes her troops to gather their weapons- pitchforks, swords, scythes- those sorts of things and stand ready at the entrance to the castle while at the same time, the less athletically inclined villagers are ushered inside to safety.

As the Targaryen descends with her dragon, she gives clear instructions not to harm the humans gathered before her, even though the mob before them has their weapons drawn and ready.

Descending from the sky, our Targaryen reader looks like a goddess, some sort of mythical queen, the elements of both wind and flame at her command. Alucard is immediately drawn to her, her presence, and her power. Although, he is weary of her as well. Too many have come to claim the power vacuum left by his father’s death, and he will not tolerate any vampires or supernatural beings staking a claim on his childhood home, his new village. Even if they are both insanely beautiful and a dragon rider.

Sypha and Trevor make it outside by the time the young woman dismounts. As she does, she raises her hands in surrender.

“I am not here to cause anyone harm. I am here to ask a great favor of the keepers of this Village Belmont.”

The trio approaches her, Greta staying behind, her army of villagers at the ready.

She explains who she is, how special her bloodline is, and how she, the current mother of dragons, is the last of her kind. She speaks mainly to Trevor, as he is the last of the famed Belmonts which angers Alucad greatly, although he doesn't understand why. All he knows is a rather impudent voice inside his head insists that she should be talking to him! Not that stupid Trevor! After all, it’s his castle and his hold, Belmont gifted it to him for safekeeping!

The young Targaryen asks Trevor if he would accept the privilege and the honor of keeping her dragon eggs safe deep within his hold until the time is right for them to be called upon. Of course, Alucard interrupts, saying that while dragon eggs would certainly be a first for the Belmont hold, he should like to examine them, as well as her and her dragon before making any commitments.

There’s a tense moment. Behind her, her dragon’s nostrils flare as it heavily breathes out. It seems she doesn't like to be questioned, and neither does her rider.

Alucard must be careful here. Yes, he’s smart and manipulative as a yandere but we are talking about a Targaryen here. Make no mistake, if he steps out of line enough, or causes her enough harm, he and his whole town will get barbequed. (Despite the threat, this incredible amount of power is one of the things about her Alucard finds the most sexy lol.)

I imagine the group forms a fragile allyship at first. The Targaryen teaches the villagers about her people and dragons. The orphaned children of course fall in love with her dragon, who to their credit, is very patient with them, but also lets them know when to back off with a shake of their large head or a deep growl from within their belly. She wants them to experience some bonding with the creature but she also doesn’t want them to grow too friendly and become complacent when encountering wild beasts outside of the village. Dragons are not to be trifled with, and should they encounter any one of them in the wild they are to react with wisdom, but more importantly fear.

Alucard, of course, watches all of this very interestingly, in awe of the Targaryen reader's fortitude and dedication to her companion and her role as mother of dragons. In watching her interact with the children, he can’t help but feel a swell of pride, and a longing in his heart loins for her to perhaps bear his children so that they can become keepers of dragons too.

He can't stop fantasizing about it, how perfect it would be, how incredible she would look housing their combined legacies. Their offspring would be unstoppable. With his vampiric abilities and her draconic bloodline… Not to mention his mother’s medicinal knowledge and Belmont’s collection knowledge within the Hold… By god, they could form an empire! One for creatures and humans alike, all who wish to live in peace and choose knowledge over ignorance. If only his mother and father could see him now…

Alucard knows though he must tread lightly. The Targaryen reader is smart and cunning. She did not come to be the last of her kind by being naive, no. She’s hardened, and she’s been through a great deal. She will need time to adjust to his affections.

Alucard doesn’t mind though. He has all the time in the world.

#alucard x reader #alucard imagine #yandere alucard x reader #yandere alucard #castlevania x reader #castlevania imagines #castlevania imagine #yandere #alucard castlevania #alucard #tw: yandere #yandere alucard x targaryen reader #yandere castlevania #targaryen reader

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fanficapologist · 4 months ago

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Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Ninety-Nine

The plan was bold, a coordinated strike meant to take the Capital by surprise from every direction, with fire and steel raining down from the sky and the sea. Word had already been dispatched to Lord Unwin, commanding him to call the Dragonseeds to heel and launch an attack from the west. They would unleash their dragons upon the western border of the Crownlands, forcing Rhaenyra’s supporters to divide their forces. From the south, Prince Daeron, Aemond’s younger brother, would lead an assault from the south, rallying the houses in the Stormlands before making his push toward the Capital.

Both Aemond and his Hand, Ser Criston Cole, had a critical role to play. The King and his most trusted advisor were to make their way north to the Riverlands, from where they would descend upon King’s Landing with a force that no one could ignore. Ser Criston would begin by taking Harrenhal, using it as a staging ground to gather their troops. Aemond, riding his mighty dragon Vhagar, would lead the charge on the Capital from the north, burning through any resistance with a fury no force could withstand.

And Maera, though injured and nursing a wounded collarbone, was not to be left behind. Once her body had healed enough to take to the skies again, she would launch her own attack. She would lead the eastern assault on the Capital, riding her powerful blue and black dragon, Ēbrion. Her task was to strike from the east while the fleet of Morne, which she had inherited, sailed into Blackwater Bay below, cutting off King’s Landing from the sea.

The coordinated attack was set to take place in three weeks, once Criston Cole had reached Harrenhal and the ground troops were ready to move. It was a plausible plan, one designed to overwhelm their enemy from all directions. Every piece was carefully placed, every move calculated. Victory seemed certain. Right?

Late one evening, the Queen had gone in search of her husband. Her collarbone still ached, though the maesters assured her it was healing well. She was eager to discuss the final details of the attack, but when she entered the grand hall, she found him sitting upon the throne of Dragonstone. The throne was carved from blackened volcanic stone, its jagged edges sharp and foreboding, much like the man who now sat upon it.

Aemond’s usual poise and control were absent, replaced by a seething fury that rippled through the room like a living thing. His one eye, cold and piercing, was fixed on a letter gripped tightly in his hand, the parchment crumpled from the force of his grip. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his jaw clenched so tightly that Maera could see the muscles twitching beneath his pale skin.

She hesitated at the base of the steps leading up to the ancient chair, her breath catching in her throat. The Kings rigid posture, his stormy expression, told her that something had gone terribly wrong. Steeling herself, she began to climb the steps. Each footstep echoed through the cold, stony chamber, the soft swish of her black and green skirts brushing against her legs as she ascended. The sound of her approach filled the room, but Aemond remained still, his gaze fixed on the far wall, his anger simmering beneath a surface of quiet restraint.

As she reached the top of the steps and stood before him, he didn’t look at her. Instead, he roughly extended a crumpled piece of parchment towards her, his fingers trembling slightly as he released it into her hands. The Queen accepted the letter with careful hands, her heart sinking with each passing second.

She slowly unfurled it, her green eyes darting across the page as the words leapt out at her. It was from Lord Unwin, detailing the progress—or lack thereof—with the Dragonseeds, Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White. The news was not good.

She closed her eyes and cast her head back, gazing up at the ceiling as though seeking guidance from the heavens. Silently, she prayed for strength, willing herself to remain composed, though every part of her wanted to scream. The gods, it seemed, were testing her patience, her resolve, her very will to fight.

Aemond’s muttered curse broke the silence. “Fuck.” The word was low, barely above a whisper, but the frustration in his voice was unmistakable. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his anger giving way to the weight of what they had just lost.

"Damn her for her stupidity," he spat, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Rhaenyra's reckless arrogance has loosed this chaos upon the world. Mere men should never have been given the power of a dragon. They think themselves higher than they are. Fools."

Maera remained silent, her eyes fixed on the crumpled letter in her hand. Lord Unwin's detailed account filled her with a rising dread. He had tried to reason with the two Dragonseeds, tried to remind them of the promises made to secure their loyalty—Harrenhal for Hugh Hammer, and Horn Hill for Ulf the White. But those promises no longer held sway. Ulf had become bold, demanding Highgarden instead, his ambition reaching far beyond what was originally offered. It was outrageous, but it was the attitude of Hugh Hammer that stoked Aemond's rage to a near-blinding degree.

Hugh had claimed that none of the Targaryens—neither Rhaenyra nor Aemond—were fit to lead. He mocked them all, proclaiming that they were not gods as they so believed, for even a bastard could claim a dragon. His words dripped with contempt. And then came the final insult: Hugh Hammer had crowned himself, donning a crude black iron circlet and declaring his own claim to the Iron Throne. The audacity of the man was staggering.

As the words sunk in, Maera’s vision blurred with fury. The Dragonseeds were supposed to be pawns in this war—tools to be used and discarded when the time came. Yet, now, they fancied themselves kings and conquerors. The paper crumpled in her hand, the anger building until she could no longer hold it. With a sharp exhale, she hurled the letter across the room, the parchment hitting the stone wall with a soft thud before fluttering uselessly to the floor.

Her voice cut through the tense silence of the chamber, her tone laced with urgency. “What is to be done about it?”

Aemond straightened up on the stony throne, his sharp features shadowed in the dim light. He cleared his throat, jaw tightening as he considered the question. “Lord Unwin is planning a coup,” he replied, his voice gruff with restrained anger. “He intends to kill both cunts before their delusions can spread any further.” His tone was cold, ruthless, but Maera knew it was the only choice. There was no room for mercy with traitors like them.

Crossing his arms, Aemond shifted, his silver hair falling over his shoulder, catching the glint of the low candlelight. His crown sat heavily on his brow, a reminder of the weight they both bore in this war. “As for Vermithor and Silverwing…”he continued, his voice thoughtful now. “We may just have to cut our losses.”

The Queen nodded, her mind turning over the plan. Hugh and Ulf were beyond reasoning, that much was clear. More importantly, they had become dangerous threats to the Greens. With the war pressing in from all sides, they couldn’t afford to fight multiple enemies at once. The Dragonseeds needed to go. As for the dragons, the likelihood of anyone else successfully claiming them was slim. Most who had tried, thanks to Rhaenyra’s reckless decision to arm bastards with dragons, had died in the process. Yet, as much as the betrayers needed to die, the loss of the beasts could severely impact the Green’s power in the Dance of the Dragons.

Still, her thoughts drifted to other methods that could be used to win the battle. “And Daeron?” she asked, her voice softening. She couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the boy, who was reportedly very different from his older brothers. Aegon and Aemond became ruthless Targaryen Princes, raised in Kings Landing. Whereas Daeron, raised in Oldtown, was gentler, more placid, adept with a lute as he was with his sword.

Lord Unwin had made it clear that the youngest Prince was being pushed around by Hugh and Ulf, disrespected and mocked at every turn when he attempted to regain control in Tumbleton with Lord Hobert Hightower, a spectacular failure.

Aemond’s jaw tightened, though his voice was calmer when he spoke of his brother. “Daeron will continue to the Stormlands as planned. He’ll remain at Storm’s End until we give the signal for the attack.”

Maera nodded again, though her heart ached for her brother-in-law. He would face the storm in his own time, just as they all would. The game of thrones was unforgiving, even to the young.

A chuckle broke the tension in the room. She turned her head and saw Aemond shaking his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Daeron hasn’t seen his lady wife in some time,” he remarked with an amused glint in his eye. “It’ll do him good to spend some time at Storm’s End. Perhaps he’ll even try to conceive an heir while he’s there.”

The Queen breathed out a soft laugh, raising her brows in surprise. It had nearly slipped her mind that Daeron was wed to Lady Ellyn Baratheon. The marriage had been an arrangement made after Aemond’s betrothal to Lady Floris Baratheon had been broken off so that he could marry Maera instead. That deal had reshuffled the pieces in the game, requiring another Targaryen prince to strengthen the Baratheon alliance. Daeron had been forced to take up that mantle, his union to Lady Ellyn smoothing over any lingering tensions between the houses.

Out of the corner of her eye, Maera noticed Aemond gesturing subtly with his hand, his silver hair gleaming in the dim light. She stepped closer, her heart softening as she placed her hand in his. His grip was warm, firm, as he ran his thumb over her knuckles in a familiar gesture of affection. His touch paused over the golden and sapphire ring that gleamed on her finger—the one he had given her before their wedding. A rare, gentle smile curved his lips as he admired the ring, the stone reflecting the same rich blue as his sapphire eye that lay beneath his leather patch.

Yet his wife’s thoughts turned dark as the weight of the future pressed on her mind. War was uncertain; its outcome impossible to predict. Between the Blacks and the Greens, only one side could emerge victorious, and if it was to be Aemond, the succession needed to be secured. With every battle, the stakes grew higher, and Maera knew that a kingdom needed more than a victorious king—it needed a clear line of inheritance.

She tilted her head slightly, looking at her husband. “Once the invasion is done, Daeron should be named Prince of Dragonstone.” Her voice was measured but firm, the thought fully formed in her mind. Aemond raised a brow at her suggestion, his expression one of slight surprise. Before he could question her, Maera continued, “He is your heir, after all.”

Aemond’s lips quirked into a smirk, his gaze sharpening. “For now,” he purred, a playful yet serious tone beneath his words. Then, without warning, he yanked Maera forward until she was perched on his lap, her body pressed against his. His sharp nose brushed against the length of her neck, his breath warm as he inhaled the familiar scent of her hair. His voice dropped to a low, intimate whisper. “Until we conceive a son,” he murmured, his lips grazing her ear.

A giggle escaped Maera’s lips as she pressed her hands against his chest, feigning an attempt to push him away. “Issa darys,” my King, she said, a note of laughter in her voice, “as much as I admire your enthusiasm…” Her cheeks flushed slightly as she added, “My moonsblood hasn’t returned since Aemara was born.” But despite her playful resistance, Aemond only tightened his arms around her, his hold possessive and unyielding.

The Queen felt her husband’s lips peppering kisses upon her skin, his touch sending a shiver through her body. She squirmed slightly in his lap, her skin prickling at the warmth of his mouth against her. A gasp escaped her when he bit down harshly, her breath catching as she heard him chuckle against her skin. She pulled back, cupping his cheek with one hand, determined to steady herself and not get distracted.

"It may be some time before we conceive another child." She searched his eye, wanting to know that he understood the gravity of her next words. "To secure the succession, Daeron should be formally recognized. It would strengthen our position."

Aemond sighed, his hand gently stroking her back in slow, reassuring circles. With his other hand, he brought her hand to his lips, kissing it with a tenderness that contrasted with his earlier roughness. His gaze softened as he looked at her. "Once again, you show your wisdom, issa daria,” my Queen, he murmured, his tone a mix of admiration and resignation. "A ceremony for Daeron will be prepared. But only once the invasion is done."

Maera smiled, her tension easing as she nodded in agreement. The future still held uncertainty, but she was satisfied they had set the right course for now. Aemond, ever pragmatic, glanced at her with a wry smirk. "Perhaps your Ladies could help plan the ceremony?"

His wife chuckled softly, her fingers brushing through the loose strands of his silver hair. "I will put them to work," she replied with a smile, already imagining how she could enlist them in the preparations. The weight of the world had not left their shoulders, but for a brief moment, Maera allowed herself to feel the smallest sense of hope, their plans slowly falling into place.

The King tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze softening as his hand hovered just above Maera’s collarbone. His fingers reached out, lightly stroking the green and black fabric of her dress, the silk smooth under his touch. "And how is your wound healing?" he asked, his voice low, tinged with genuine concern.

Maera grinned, rolling her shoulder back with a confident ease. "It’s healing well," she replied, feeling a warmth in her chest at his attentiveness. She moved her arm slightly to show him, the motion fluid. "I hardly feel it now," she added, her tone light and proud of her recovery.

Her husband hummed softly in response, his hand lingering near her skin before dropping back to his lap. Maera caught the way his single violet eye raked over her, taking in the curve of her body, lingering a little longer than usual. His gaze settled on her chest, and she saw the subtle shift in his posture, his interest plain despite his calm demeanor.

A slow smirk tugged at the corners of the Queen’s lips as she met his gaze. "Is there anything else I could do to assist you this evening, my King?" she asked, her voice playful, laced with suggestion. The tension between them shifted, thickening as her question hung in the air.

Aemond's lips curled into a smirk of his own, his eye flickering with amusement and desire, as if silently weighing her offer with all the seriousness of a council decision. His finger trailed lightly along her jaw, sending shivers down her spine as her heart thumped loudly in her chest. His touch was soft but deliberate, and she could see the devilish grin curling at the corners of his mouth. "I wish for my Queen to get on her knees and ease my troubles," he murmured, his voice low and thick with desire.

Maera gasped softly at his lewd command, her breath catching in her throat. But before she could react further, his other hand moved roughly to squeeze her upper thigh, his grip firm and possessive. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered, "And since my wife is such a skilled dragon rider, perhaps she can demonstrate her mastery by riding me upon the throne of our ancestors."

A wicked smile spread across Maera's lips, her eyes gleaming with amusement and anticipation. "I couldn't very well refuse my King, now could I?" she replied softly, her voice thick with playful submission.

Without a word, Aemond pulled her closer, his lips crashing against hers with an urgency that took her breath away. His kiss was fierce, filled with hunger as he claimed her mouth. The heat between them ignited instantly, her body responding to the raw need in his touch. His lips moved with hers, demanding and insistent, his grip on her thigh tightening as he deepened the kiss.

Aemond's tongue traced her bottom lip, teasing her, silently demanding more. She parted her lips for him without hesitation, inviting him in. Their tongues met in a feverish dance, his rough and commanding while hers answered with equal intensity. Each movement was deliberate, every stroke a testament to the passion that simmered just beneath the surface.

Maera's hands explored her husband’s broad chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath the fine leather of his doublet. Her fingers traced the intricate stitching as they moved across his torso, lingering at the contours of his chest before sliding lower. His body was strong, hardened from years of intense training, and the power he exuded only deepened her desire for him.

As her lips left his and found the warm skin of his neck, Maera nipped lightly, teasing his pulse point with the tip of her tongue before licking along the line of his jaw. Aemond hissed at the sensation, his breath catching in his throat as her lips left a trail of heat in their wake. His hands roamed eagerly over her body, squeezing and caressing the curves hidden beneath the layers of her green and black dress.

The one-eyed King’s touch grew more urgent, and his hands found her breasts, feeling the peaks of her nipples harden beneath the fabric at his touch. The warmth of her body and the soft moan she let slip fueled his growing need, and a low growl of desire escaped him, vibrating in the space between them.

Her body responded instinctively, her hips rocking against Aemond as she felt the familiar hardness of his length pressing beneath her. The heat between them intensified, and with every subtle movement, her breath hitched, her own need growing alongside his.

Unable to contain his hunger any longer, his fingers tugged eagerly at the ribbons at the front of her dress, fumbling in his desperation to untie them. He wanted to feel her bare skin against him, to rid her of the barrier between them. Each pull at the ribbons came faster, his impatience growing with every second as he sought the softness of her flesh beneath the fabric.

Just as Aemond's fingers worked eagerly at the last ribbon of her dress, desperate to pull it free, Maera grinned, a teasing glint in her eyes. Without warning, she hopped off his lap, leaving him momentarily stunned. She flashed him a sultry smile, biting her lower lip as she took a step back, her movements slow and deliberate.

Aemond's gaze darkened, his single violet eye following her every move, anticipation hanging thick in the air. Maera, ever graceful, sank slowly to her knees before him, elegantly adjusting her skirts so they fanned around her like a pool of fabric. Her hands smoothed over the green and black silk, her posture poised and deliberate. When she looked up at him, her gaze was smoldering with intent, full of confidence and allure.

She reached for the ties of his breeches, her fingers deftly undoing the knot that held them together. With practiced ease, she freed him from the confines of the fabric, her hand wrapping around his cock, warm and firm. Aemond's breath hitched, his chest rising sharply as her delicate fingers closed around him, stroking slowly at first, tracing the length of his shaft with the lightest of touches.

He groaned deeply, the sound guttural and raw, his head tilting back as the sensation overwhelmed him. Her fingers moved with deliberate care, teasing him, exploring him, her touch gentle yet purposeful. Maera watched the way his jaw clenched, the way his muscles tightened beneath her ministrations.

His breaths came ragged as he looked down at Maera, her delicate hand still wrapped around him. "Do you intend to spend the whole evening teasing me, wife?" Aemond asked, his voice strained, a mixture of impatience and desire lacing his words.

The Queen’s lips curled into a wicked smile. She leaned forward, pressing a soft, deliberate kiss to the tip of his length, causing him to hiss sharply at the sensation. "I just might," she purred, her green eyes flashing with mischief.

Before he could respond, she took him fully into her mouth in one swift motion, silencing any retort. Aemond's hand flew to her brown and silver curls, fingers tangling in her hair as he held her in place, groaning deeply as the warmth of her mouth enveloped him. Her lips wrapped tightly around him, and she sucked harshly on the tip, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through his veins.

Her tongue moved expertly, swirling around the head before she began to take him deeper, inch by inch, her throat relaxing as she swallowed him whole. Aemond's jaw clenched, his knuckles white as he gripped her hair tighter, overwhelmed by the intense pleasure that threatened to undo him. Maera's mouth was relentless, her rhythm deliberate, and she could feel his legs tremble beneath her as a loud, guttural groan echoed through the grand hall.

“Gods be good.” With a low growl, he tightened his grip on her hair, guiding her movements as he took control. He brought her up slowly before lowering her mouth back down onto him, over and over again, his body shuddering with every pass of her lips. She whined softly against him, the vibrations of her voice sending shocks of pleasure through his already overstimulated body, intensifying the experience.

Her knees ached against the cold, hard stone floor, the discomfort biting into her skin, but she paid it no mind. To please her King, to show him the depth of her love and devotion, she would endure far more than this. Aemond's temper, his rage-he needed this, needed her, and she would gladly serve him in this way.

Maera's thoughts were abruptly interrupted when Aemond yanked her head off his throbbing length, a sharp gasp leaving her lips. His face was flushed, his violet eye dark with desire and need. Without a word, he pulled her forward, making her climb onto his lap once more.

In a swift, almost desperate motion, he hiked her skirts high above her hips, exposing the smooth skin of her thighs to the cool air of the room. His rough hands gripped her bare flesh, fingers tracing the soft, rounded curves with a possessive touch. Maera's breath hitched, her heart racing as Aemond's hands moved with purpose.

Without warning, he tugged her smallclothes aside, and before she could catch her breath, his fingers plunged deep inside her. A sharp gasp escaped her throat, her body instinctively arching against him. His thumb found the bundle of nerves at her center, pressing down firmly, sending waves of ecstasy through her core. Her hips rocked against his hand, her body moving of its own accord as he expertly teased and tormented her.

"Aemond," she whined, her voice breathless as her fingers clutched his shoulders for support. He chuckled darkly at her reaction, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.

"Not so nice to be teased, is it?" he murmured, his voice low and dangerous.

His words sent a shiver down her spine as his thumb pressed harder against her, circling with maddening precision. Maera gasped again, her grip tightening on him as the familiar sensation began to build low in her stomach, her body responding to his every touch. The pressure grew and grew with each deliberate stroke of his fingers, the coil inside her winding tighter and tighter, leaving her at his mercy.

Her nails dug into Aemond's shoulders, her body squirming in his lap as she rocked her hips against his hand. Each movement sent another jolt through her, her breath coming out in ragged pants. Desperation clawed at her, the tension in her body building to an unbearable peak as his fingers thrust in and out of her, each stroke more agonizing than the last. The pleasure was almost too much to bear, her mind clouded with the need for release.

"Please..." she gasped, her voice shaky and broken, pleading for mercy as the coil within her tightened to a breaking point. He responded with a dark, satisfied smirk, his single violet eye glinting with control.

"Peak for me," he growled, his fingers curling inside her just right, his thumb pressing firmly against her sensitive bundle of nerves. "Then, I'll give you what you want."

With a choked gasp, the tension inside her snapped. A wave of euphoria crashed over her, and she came undone on his fingers. Maera's hips bucked, grinding down against his hand as she rode out her high, her entire body trembling with the intensity of her release. She moaned loudly, her grip on his shoulders tightening as her vision blurred, her mind lost in the overwhelming sensation.

When her climax finally subsided, Aemond slowly withdrew his fingers, his gaze locked on her flushed face as she tried to steady her breathing. He wasted no time, grabbing his length and running the flushed tip teasingly through her slick folds. Maera whimpered softly, her body still sensitive from the peak he had just given her.

Aemond's other hand found her hip, his grip firm as he held her in place. Without warning, he began to slowly lower her onto him, inch by agonizing inch. Maera gasped, her mouth falling open as he filled her completely, the stretch of him almost too much to handle all at once. She felt every inch of him as he sank deeper inside her, her body trembling as she adjusted to his size.

The pressure was exquisite, and as he bottomed out inside her, Maera bit her lip, her body molding perfectly to his. Aemond groaned lowly, his hand gripping her hip tighter, his restraint palpable as he held her still for a moment, savoring the feeling of being buried inside her.

Maera began to rock against him with fervor, her movements fluid and desperate. With each roll of her hips, his length brushed that perfect, spongey spot within her, sending pleasure through her body like lightning. A moan escaped her lips, breathy and uncontrolled, as she rode him with determination.

Her green eyes never left his, locked in an intense gaze that mirrored the hunger they both felt. Their mouths hung open, panting and gasping for breath as a thin sheen of sweat glistened on their flushed faces. Each thrust seemed to pull them deeper into the shared bliss, their connection unbreakable upon the throne of Dragonstone.

Aemond gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw tightening. Planting his feet firmly on the stone floor, he seized control, bucking his hips upward to meet hers with a force that made her cry out. His hands gripped her hips tightly, guiding her down onto him with each powerful thrust. The rhythm they created together was frantic, filled with heat and a desperation that consumed them.

Aemond's voice was thick with lust as he murmured, "You’re perfect. Fuck, my perfect Queen," his words shooting straight to Maera's core, adding fuel to the fire already burning deep within her. His praise sent a wave of heat through her body, tightening the coil of pleasure that wound tighter with every thrust.

He began to pound into her with an almost brutal pace, chasing his own release. Each rough movement caused her to gasp, her body trembling under the force of his desire. As he thrust into her, Maera reached out with a trembling hand, carefully straightening the Conqueror's crown upon his head with a small, playful smile. The sight of him wearing it, regal and powerful, only spurred her on, reminding her of the kingly man beneath her.

Aemond's grip on her hips tightened, and he groaned as he sped up, his thrusts becoming erratic and desperate. Maera could feel him swelling inside her, her own pleasure building to an unbearable peak once more. With a guttural moan, she leaned closer, her breath hot against his ear, "Please, my King. Cum deep inside of me," she commanded, her voice low and full of desire.

Her words were his undoing. Aemond's hips jerked up into her one final time as he groaned loudly, the sound vibrating against her skin. His release came in a hot wave, filling her completely as his body trembled beneath his wife, her second orgasm following moments after. He buried his face in her neck, their breath ragged, bodies slick with sweat as they clung to one another, the intensity of their shared pleasure leaving them both breathless.

For now, the war seemed distant and unimportant, its looming shadow momentarily forgotten in the intimacy of their shared embrace. The tension and bloodshed that had consumed their days and nights melted away, leaving only the warmth of their bodies pressed together, hearts still racing in the aftermath of their passion.

As their breaths began to settle, the frantic energy that had fueled them ebbed, replaced by a soft calm. Maera and Aemond remained tangled together upon the stony throne, her fingers lazily tracing the lines of his jaw as his arms tightened around her, unwilling to let go. The flicker of candlelight cast soft, flickering shadows over their entwined forms, the grand hall silent but for the occasional crackle of the flames.

They sat in the darkness, wrapped in each other's warmth, savoring this fleeting moment of peace, knowing the chaos of war still awaited them. Yet, for now, they allowed themselves to simply be.

Notes: little smutty diversion 😍 and an interesting development next week 🖤 (also I hate writing smut! I’m an over perfectionist and it stresses me out 🤣 I hope y’all enjoy it at least, been a while since she sucked his dick)

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

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pinturas-sgm-aviacion · 5 months ago

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1940 05 Westland Lysander MkIII - box art Italeri

The Westland Lysander was a short take off and landing (STOL) aircraft that was initially employed in the forward observer/artillery spotter/army cooperation role. It would later provide air support for what would subsequently be called covert operations in Occupied Europe. It first flew on June 15, 1936 and was a factor in the post-war development of a STOL requirement by the world’s major air forces. Entering service with the Royal Air Force in June 1938, its design was significantly influenced by the German Henschel Hs 126, a similar aircraft in the Luftwaffe inventory. The Lysander was fully operational with No. 16 (Army Co-operation) Squadron at the time of the Munich Crisis in September 1938, and began the R.A.F’s process of phasing out its then designated artillery spotter aircraft, the Hawker Hector bi-plane.By the time war broke out a year later, it was in service with seven squadrons, six of which deployed to France in the first months of the war (Nos. 2, 4, 13, 26, 613 and 614). When hostilities in the West began in earnest in May 1940 with Germany’s invasion of France and the Low Countries, Lysanders began reconnaisance and artillery spotting operations, with Nos. 2 and 4 Squadrons re-deploying to Belgium.On occasion, Lysanders gave a surprisingly good account of themselves when pitted against state-of-the-art German fighters. In one action, a group of Lysanders was attacked by six Messerschmitt Bf 110s over Belgium, and the rear gunner of one of them, L.A.C. Gillham, shot down one of the 110’s, before his pilot could escape at low level. In the coming weeks, Lysanders were frequently set upon by Bf 109’s, particularly when unescorted by their own fighters. While not fast, they were highly manueverable; if they were lucky, they would escape with mere battle damage. But between May 10 and May 23, 1940, nine crews and 11 aircraft were lost to enemy action. On the 25th still more were caught on the ground in a strafing attack at Clairmarais and destroyed.By the time of the Dunkirk evacuation, the Lysander squadrons had been decimated, having virtually no serviceable aircraft. Often their crews flew against intimidating odds, being called upon to air drop supplies without fighter escort to British or French troops, or provide ground support with their loads of 40 lb. bombs, all in skies increasingly dominated by the Luftwaffe. They inflicted damage along the way; on May 22 Flying Officer Dodge shot down a Henschel Hs 126 with his forward machine guns, while his rear gunner downed a Junkers Ju 87 Stuka. But this was the exception. Of 174 aircraft deployed to France, 88 were lost in air combat and 30 more destroyed on the ground by the time the French capitulated.

After Dunkirk, contemplating a loss rate of 63 percent, the RAF had little choice but to withdraw the Lysander from front line service — at least for daytime operations. The Lysander would go on to its greatest fame as the aircraft of choice for Special Operations Executive, a covert auxiliary of (and competitor to) the British Secret Intelligence Service (SIS), charged by Winston Churchill with covert operations in the Occupied Countries and a mandate to “set Europe ablaze.” Soon, on a regular basis, Lysanders of No. 138 Squadron (Special Duties), painted matt black, inserted agents and their weapons, ammunition, explosives and other supplies, and withdrew shot-down airmen. Sometimes they withdrew people wanted by the Gestapo, or brought Resistance leaders back to London for briefings. Lysanders would later be used by both the British Commandos and the American Office of Strategic Services on similar operations in Europe and the Far East.

Landing in unprepared clearings or meadows at night, the landing ground identified by small torches lit by members of the Resistance, Lysanders helped sustain hope in Occupied Europe and Asia. By 1942 they were equipped with larger fuel tanks (starting with the Mk. IIIa) to allow penetration deeper into France, and their ladders touched up with flourescent paint to allow quicker ingress and egress from the plane. There was constant danger – one on occasion, a Lysander guided to a landing by torches touched down, only to be met by German machine gun fire. The pilot, Squadron Leader Conroy, slammed the throttle open and struggled to get airborne, stemming the blood from a neck wound by clamping his hand over it. Brushing the treetops at the edge of the landing field, he managed to return safely to England.

In the Middle East, Lysanders were able to operate longer in their original roles of artillery spotting and reconnaisance since Axis fighter aircraft were not as readily available. In Palestine, they flew throughout 1940 doing aerial blackout inspections, coastal watch, and general co-operation with the Palestine Police. In North Africa, No. 6 Squadron was deployed to Libya and was ordered to remain in Tobruk when the British retreated from Rommel’s Afrika Korps, providing close air support over the beseiged garrison, which continued to hold out. During the war, Lysanders were operated by Britain, France, Ireland, Canada, Finland, Egypt, and South Africa. By war’s end they were a rarity, except in Canada, where relatively large numbers of them persisted until the 1950’s.

#italeri #box art

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mariacallous · 2 months ago

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Ukraine is outraged by the unwavering American support for Israel, calling it a "double standard" as the United States refuses to intercept Russian missiles and drones over Ukraine, Politico reported on Oct. 16.

This week, the United States deployed the advanced THAAD missile defense system to protect Israel from Iranian ballistic missiles. However, Ukraine receives no similar level of assistance despite facing daily attacks from Russian drones, missiles, and bombs, the article states.

The reason for this discrepancy is that Russia possesses nuclear weapons, making Washington wary of escalating tensions with Moscow.

"The tough answer that Ukrainians may not like to hear but is unfortunately true is that we can take the risk of shooting down Iranian missiles over Israel without triggering direct war with Tehran that could lead to nuclear war," a high-ranking U.S. Senate aide working on Ukraine policy told Politico.

“There’s a lot more risk in trying that with Russia.”

Two officials from the Biden administration confirmed this. The White House fears that sending U.S. troops to Ukraine to intercept Russian missiles could provoke a direct military confrontation between the two leading nuclear powers, with potentially apocalyptic consequences.

"It is sad to look at all this as an ordinary citizen of Ukraine — when in an agreement to prevent escalation on the part of Moscow, your country and citizens are being sacrificed," said Mykola Bielieskov, a research fellow at the Ukrainian National Institute for Strategic Studies.

Kyiv wants Poland and Romania to help intercept Russian targets over western Ukraine. This option is being discussed, but the countries have not changed their policies yet, Politico writes. Warsaw has stated that it will not act without full NATO alliance support.

Meanwhile, two Ukrainian air defense officers, speaking on condition of anonymity, explained that it is easier for the United States to defend Israel's skies because it is a small country, and America can use ship-based air defense systems. In contrast, Ukraine is vast and inaccessible to Western fleets; its allies would need to place air defense systems on the country's western border, from which they could only protect adjacent territory.

"NATO members entering into the aerial defense of Ukraine would need to bring a much larger contribution, over a broader area, with a greater risk of ‘entering the war’ for uncertain gains," said Matthew Savill, military sciences director at the Royal United Services Institute in London.

“The cost would also be greater, as the frequency of Russian attacks is far greater than the significant but reactive Iranian attempts to strike Israel directly.”

However, Ukraine's frustration is growing as the Biden administration is not doing enough to help Kyiv stop Russian attacks, Politico notes. This includes slow weapons deliveries and a ban on using long-range missiles to strike Russian territory.

According to the outlet, U.S. officials are aware of Kyiv's growing dissatisfaction. They stated that they are working on new weapons supplies, which they hope will address the outrage.

Defense Secretary Lloyd Austin authorized on Oct. 13 the deployment of a THAAD battery and associated U.S. military personnel to bolster Israel's air defense following Iranian attacks on April 13 and Oct. 1.

Pentagon spokesperson Sabrina Singh said on Oct. 15 that the United States will not intercept missiles over Ukraine as it does over Israel because "the wars are different."

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dujour13 · 2 months ago

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Owlcatober 27. Portrait

Fandom: Wrath of the Righteous

More Sosiel 💖 This one sort of follows on 20. Honor

Also on AO3

At first Sosiel thought the colorfully dressed half-elf standing with the Queen before the ranks of the Fifth Crusade must be some sort of herald, a bard she’d hired to lend some cheer to the occasion before she presented the new Knight-Commander to his troops.

By now he’d heard the new Knight-Commander was Andoren, the sole survivor of the Diplomatic Corps caravan massacre, and that made two things they had in common. Impatiently he craned his neck to peer over a pauldron.

And saw the Queen present the bard.

Who gave the troops a friendly wave.

For a few seconds Sosiel watched in confusion, and then slowly began to smile.

The Knight-Commander of the Fifth Crusade looked like one of those urban artsy types Sosiel admired when he was younger, probably from Almas or Augustana. Not a hint of stern military discipline in his clothing or demeanor as he stepped up and gave a short speech in a warm, strong tenor with an unmistakable Andoren accent—something about the Fifth Crusade welcoming all without discrimination, about the resilience of heterogeneity—but Sosiel was too excited to listen, his painter’s eye transfixed.

Amidst the leaden sky and mud, the dull gray armor marked only by pale patches of icy white and red more like blood than heraldry, the Knight-Commander was a lone spring flower.

Later he was surprised to receive a personal invitation from the Queen to join her in the command tent. After all the grief her inquisitors had given him he’d been sure they wouldn’t let him anywhere near her, but apparently his midnight ride to Nerosyan had already become somewhat of a legend in the nascent Fifth Crusade and he found himself not only above suspicion but a minor celebrity among her royal escort.

When they entered, the Knight-Commander was not sitting at his desk but on it, ankles crossed. Up close Sosiel observed him curiously. It was always hard to tell with half-elves, but he guessed he must be several years Sosiel’s senior, with straw-colored hair and olive-gold eyes, cheerful in the lamplight. Tanned skin, Kelish nose, bright smile. Original assortment of colors. A Desnan pendant—no surprise at all, Sosiel thought.

“You’re from Carpenden?” Beaming, the Knight-Commander shook his hand. “Beautiful place.”

“Yes, it is. You’ve been there?”

“Are you kidding? I was at the harvest festival just a couple years ago. The time the ponies got loose. Hey, you don’t happen to have any wine?”

“No, I’m afraid when the Temple was attacked everything was ransacked, even our personal affairs.”

“Oh.” The Knight-Commander’s smile fell. “The Temple of Shelyn. I heard what happened. I’m sorry. How are you holding up?”

There was something so sincere in his eyes and in the way he squeezed his shoulder that Sosiel felt a sob rise in his chest and had to fight it down. So few had offered him words of compassion. “I—thank you. I miss them. We should treasure what time we have with those we love, since we never know when it may come to an end. But we all do what we must. I understand you find yourself similarly grieving.”

Judging by his shaky sigh, it sounded like the Knight-Commander could relate. “I didn’t expect the road to be easy, but no one thought it would be this rough. What brings a priest of the goddess of beauty all this way?”

“I can’t sit idly by and paint landscapes while people are dying,” said Sosiel with passion. “All the more now.”

At this the Knight-Commander looked surprised. “You’re right.”

Sosiel wondered if something he’d said had affected him in some way, because he glanced over his shoulder at the stack of paperwork on his desk and then down at his hands. “You’re exactly right,” he murmured.

He looked lost, far from his element. Uprooted. Sosiel thought back to his own journey here, leaving sunny skies and the promise of ripening grapes behind for the promise of struggle and glory—and instead finding grief.

“Knight-Commander, I’m organizing a funeral service for my fallen brethren at Martyr Zacharius’ cemetery. It would be a comfort to their loved ones if you would say a few words. And perhaps a comfort to… all of us who have lost people.”

When the Knight-Commander raised his eyes again there was a look of gratitude, and also resolve. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be there. Thank you. And by the way—”

“Yes?”

“I’m not big on titles. Just call me Siavash.”

In the following days the Knight-Commander—Siavash—was too busy to visit the chapel tent, and it was just as well. Sosiel felt absurdly proud of his latest oeuvre, so proud that it would mortify him should the Knight-Commander witness what he had unknowingly inspired.

It was embarrassingly beautiful. Flushed, Sosiel turned the canvas backward to hide it just in case, but not without one last pleased glance at the way the crushing steel whorl of Mendev, silvery white and streaked with mud and fire, bore up amidst its pain and chaos a single bloom of sky-blue and gold (and rose, amber, forest green, lavender and turquoise), deceptively fragile-looking but casting a glow on the mist surrounding it like a beacon, a promise of warmth and kindness that made the bleakness bearable.

“Sosiel… that’s…”

“My first impression of the new Knight-Commander. I left it in storage at the Temple when we marched on Drezen.”

Siavash grabbed him around the shoulders and squeezed.

“Tell me you’re crying because you like it.”

“I look so lost and lonely.”

“And look at you now. You know, I felt a kinship with you at the beginning of the Crusade. I hoped we could be friends.”

Siavash laughed fondly as Sosiel filled his glass. “Can I tell you a secret? When you told me back then that you couldn’t paint while people were dying, you gave me the push I needed. I was getting ready to ditch.”

“No.” Sosiel smiled incredulously.

“Yeah. When the Queen gave me the title I thought she meant as a figurehead. I didn’t think it would involve paperwork.”

“So this mess is all my fault.”

“Entirely.” Siavash brought his glass to his lips and stopped. “Wait, this isn’t one of Yumillian’s, is it?”

“Go ahead. It’ll be fine.”

#pathfinder: wrath of the righteous #my writing #owlcatober 2024 #pwotr pals #sosiel vaenic #siavash

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moonlightazriel · 1 year ago

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Son of the Darkness XVIII /// Azriel X F!Reader

Summary: Hidden for so long The court of shadows thrived, and things were great until the high lord's death, now the next in line should assume the crown of high lord of shadows, will he accept his duties?

Warnings: Blood and death, it’s a war after all ahahaaha

Word Count: 3,7K

Notes: The end is almost there, I love this fic so much, it was a nice ride.

Son of the Darkness Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Sweat coated her forehead, her muscles burned but her sword kept finding the destiny. Jurian had warned about the left flank that they should attack near the border with Summer Court. They moved the army there through the night, not stopping for a single second until they were all gathered.

And he was right, the whole army was taken by surprise as they were being trapped between the troops of night and autumn. Fire blazing from the south, meeting the shadows in the middle of the battlefield.

As they arrived last night, Azriel once again assumed his Spymaster title, going around and gathering information about the Hybern’s troops. They decided to attack from a hill, where Feyre now waited with her sisters. He had tried to ask Y/N to stay behind in the beginning but even with her numb end of the bond, he could feel the eagerness for joining the battle.

So there she was, near Cassian, he would fight from the skies while she killed enemies by foot. The two generals fought together like they had done this for years perfectly synchronised, Azriel felt a pang of jealousy in his chest as he watched from the other side of the camp.

A team of healers would gather the wounded, and the bodies. Evanore would bring them to life while Ellora and Kharis healed. Y/N killed another soldier, protecting the healer that rushed by her side.

The battle was happening for a couple of hours, with the surprise attack, it was easier to get rid of the inexperienced nobility that commanded the army. Y/N was targeting a male, his armour more detailed than the common soldiers, she could see his terrified face as he saw her smirk from across the field, like he knew he was going to be next.

Her body was covered in blood and mud, her footsteps heavy with the mud clinging to her boots, but she opened a path directly for him, her shadows killing the males that dared to get in between her and her target. She knew that the easiest way to create chaos among soldiers was watching their superiors, those who should be leading them, fall.

So she delighted in the sound of the male demanding others to protect him and hold the line, to kill that damned bitch and take her head for him. The males brave enough to try and stop her didn’t last more than a minute as her shadows stole their senses one by one, until they forgot how to breathe and their convulsing bodies touched the ground.

“Get away from me, demon.” The noble yelled, foolishly holding his shaking sword up, trying to intimidate her.

“I’ve been called many names.” She started, spinning her sword before clutching it harder, aiming for the exposed neck. “Dying men tend to be really creative, you know? The Bloody Countess, Lady Darkness, The Dark Fury.”

Her sword clashed against his, the male’s unstable hand easily letting go of the blade, the sword flew from his hands and fell to the ground. She kicked the male to the ground, stepping into his chest. He sobbed.

“But it’s the first time someone called me a demon, I like it though.” She pressed her sword to his neck, slowly pushing the blade inside.

“Please don’t kill me.” The male begged, blood pouring from his neck as he tried to get her off of him.

“Darling, I don’t take war prisoners.” She slid the blade all the way, watching the male choke on his blood and the soldiers around them start to walk backwards. She let her shadows go, males falling to the ground as she looked at them like someone would look at the sunset.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

She watched from the top of the hill, sipping down on a jug of water, the blood coated field, the bodies of all the Hybern soldiers laying there, the dead and wounded still being carried and treated.

“I never saw someone fighting like that.” Azriel said from behind her.

“You weren’t so bad either.” She shrugged. He sat by her side and she offered him the water, his hand rubbed against hers as he pick it up, taking it to his lips. She watched closely as a drop of water ran down his chin.

“Makes me feel good.” She raised an eyebrow. “Knowing that you’re so strong and can protect yourself. Brings me relief.”

“I can’t imagine myself doing anything else.” She confessed and he grabbed her hand, slowly walking until he was standing in front of her.

“Not even being High Lady?” He asked and Y/N stiffed, her eyes scanning his face to see any trace that could indicate that this was a joke, Azriel looked serious, more than she ever had seen him in this time they knew each other.

“What?” Azriel touched her chin, holding her face in between his hands, caressing the bruise on her cheek from a punch.

“I love you, more than the amount of stars in the sky, more than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything. I want you to be by my side in every aspect of my life. As my lover, as my general, as my m…” He cut himself off, he would wait for her, he could do that. “And having you as my High Lady would be a privilege.”

“You really mean it?” She blinked the tears away, feeling her heart swell.

“Every. Single. Word.” He said, and she angled her body towards his, kissing him on the lips.

“My heart belongs to you, I belong to you, body and soul.” She said as they parted. “I’m yours, Azriel Malthalion.”

“And I’m yours, Y/N Daera.” He kissed her once more. “My love, my warrior, my High Lady.” She felt her chest warm, she liked that, belonging to someone, to him. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

Azriel had gone back to run around gathering information, Y/N offered to go with him but she had to stay and help ease the tensions in camp, four different armies united surely would just end up in tragedy.

Cassian and her had delivered tasks and he made people dig a trench around the camp, the armies from Rhys, Azriel and Eris sat together as one but Tarquin decided to not join.

The High Lords and the generals sat in the war tent, things had gone eerily quiet for 5 days, so they needed to discuss what to do next. Y/N sat there, sharpening her sword and keeping a close eye on Evanore, she was by Eris’s side, chatting like long time friends.

She was happy that her friend was able to spend time with her mate, Eva deserved happiness more than anyone, and she could always chop his dick off if he did anything to her. He must’ve felt that he was being watched, cuz he turned to look at her, swallowing hard as she pressed the sharpening stone a bit too hard against the blade, smiling friendly at him next.

“They moved.” A very out of breath Azriel appeared in the middle of the tent, making everyone jump to attack. “They’re moving towards Winter.” He concluded.

“They what? How did we miss it?” Rhysand ran a hand through his hair.

“Jurian did say this was just a playtime for them. The real army must’ve been moving for days now.” Tarquin pointed, making everyone sigh, they felt like idiots.

“We need to go.” Eris pointed.

“But what if they come back? We can leave this spot unguarded.” Cassian replied.

“We can march to the North AND stay here.” Everyone turned to the Summer prince. “We can cast a spell, a really good one, one that makes them think we’re still here.” He pointed to the map. “Let them think we chose to stay here.”

“While we go to the north covered by a spell.” Evanore jumped. “Good old visual spell, my favourite.” She smiled.

“Can you do this kind of illusion?” Varian asked Rhysand.

“With the help of my mate.” He held Feyre’s hand.

“Then it’s settled, Evanore helps with the army disguise, while Feyre and Rhys use the illusion spell to pretend we’re still here.” Tarquin said that was a good plan, it should work just fine.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

The witches once again, with the help of everyone who could winnow, transported the army to where Azriel had said Hybern would be. They could see the army, still hidden by Evanore’s spell, so Cassian and Y/N decided that the army should rest, everyone should rest their powers. Choosing their battles was another important move in a war.

“This army is bigger.” Rune said, looking at Evanore. The witches sat, praying to The Mother and the nature.

“They’re too tired, their magic is weak to defeat them.” Alais stated, she could feel it in her bones.

“We have to do something, Rune.” Thalia begged, she wanted to go home knowing they would be safe to see another day.

“There’s only one thing we can do.” Ryo looked to her sisters, all of them nodded in agreement and Rune took the lead.

The witches walked to the centre of the camp, each one of them forming the Seven Pointed Star. The singing started, the soldiers stopped at the sound of their voices, so loud that echoed through the trees and their hearts. Each one of them started to glow, each one of them working as a gate for the infinity magic that graced the land.

Tiredness, drained magic, wounds and worries all vanished, replaced by a breath of life, filling their blood with renewed power, buzzing with excitement to get to war. It was a simple ritual where they offered a couple of their years to the nature in order to gain more power. They could choose between keeping it to themselves or giving it to others.

As they finished their chanting, the atmosphere had changed, and it felt like they had all the energy in the world, the energy necessary to win that battle.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

Keir’s troops formed the front, a wave of Hybern’s soldiers clashing against them, they tried to hold the line but it was useless, the weak army was also an illusion, and they were more than ready to fight.

“Hold the line.” Cassian yelled, the Illyrian soldiers forming the line behind, forcing Keir’s soldiers to go forwards but Hybern pushed them back.

Y/N stood very still, this wasn’t working, they had to penetrate the shields, and this wasn’t even Hybern’s whole army. Y/N looked at Cassian across the field. If the generals took the lead, the soldiers would follow.

So she ran, through lines of men, every male stepping back to let her pass. Cassian turned to her with a lifted eyebrow.

“What are you doing here?” She took a deep breath.

“How much can you carry?” She inquired and his eyebrows shot all the way up to his hairline.

“What?”

“Can you carry me?” Cassian nodded. “This isn’t working, we have to act now.” Fire burned in those brown eyes, determination laced with bravery, she was going to risk herself so they could have a chance.

Azriel would have to forgive him, but he ordered for her to turn around, grabbing her by the waist he shot for the skies.

“I’ll drop you, and I’ll find another place, we open a path to each other.” Cassian shouted over the roaring of the wind in her ears, she nodded.

Azriel watched the waves of Rhysand power push the soldiers, but it was the red glowing up in the air that caught his attention, he shielded his eyes from the rain, spotting Cassian with his arms open. Y/N fell, the wind whipping her braid around, a mist of shadows touched the ground before she did, and she fell in the middle of the dead corpses, swords in hand and ready to fight.

Cassian landed a little further away from her, soldiers aiming for him, bloodlust in their eyes as they tried to get a piece of the Illyrian general. The plan was simple: kill as many as he could, enough to weaken the army so their troops could cut through.

“I’m going after them.” Azriel announced in Rhysand’s head, and he hummed in agreement, Cassian and Y/N had been smart enough to attack from inside, but they couldn’t do it all alone.

Azriel aimed for the skies, as soon as he was far away enough from everyone, he changed. Mist covered him and he felt his magic doing its trick. The huge gryphon screamed, descending upon the soldiers, the corrosive shadows doing what they had to.

This attack led to more confusion, distracting Hybern’s soldiers enough to get the Illyrians and the Night Fall through. Blood splattered everywhere and the agonising sounds of battle filled the space. The rain kept pouring, washing away the blood dripping from the armies.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

“Hold the lines.” Mor begged, pacing around. Nesta kept her eyes focused on the red light that indicated where Cassian was.

“I need to find The Suriel.” Feyre stated. Morrigan turned to her in an instant.

“You’re not leaving.”

“He’s the only one who can tell us where to find the rest of the army.” She declared.

“Then I’m coming with you.” She stomped her foot down.

“Your talents are being wasted here, they need you there.” She pointed to the battlefield, she had noticed how eager to join Mor was.

“Rhys is going to kill me.” She protested, but her eyes drifted to the war.

“He won’t, I’ll be safe.” She reassured and Mor nodded.

“Please, Feyre. Be safe.” Feyre nodded, waiting until Morrigan was ready, winnowing to Cassian in that field. She then reached for the only person that could help her find The Suriel, Elain.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

Y/N kept moving, trying to find Cassian as they planned, but she instead found Morrigan, fighting her way to Cassian. Azriel was on the other side of the battlefield, killing with his mist.

“Do you think he needs our help?” Morrigan shouted, her blonde hair glued to her forehead as the two females fought.

“They always do.” Mor aimed for the soldier rushing to kill Y/N, the other female spinning around and blazing her shadows in a straight line.

The battle was nearing the end once more, Tarquin and his army passed through, with Eris following close behind. And when Morrigan and Y/N finally reached Cassian, he was kneeling in the mud, an open wound from his belly button to his sternum.

“NO!” Mor shouted, Y/N squeezed her shoulder.

“Take him to the healers, it’s over now.” Mor did as she was told, disappearing with him.

Conjuring all of her magic, soldiers fell, and fell and fell. Until her lungs begged for air, until only a few soldiers stood, throwing their swords to the ground and giving up. Tarquin was responsible for their destiny, and once again every soldier choked from inside out in water.

Azriel was by her side in a second, removing her helmet and assessing her face for any injuries, despite the tiredness she felt, she was fine.

“We need to go and see Cassian.” Azriel nodded and the two winnowed again.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

“Will he?” Feyre couldn’t bring herself to finish that question.

“He might be sore for a few days and definitely he will need to rest, but he will be fine.” One of the healers said and Nesta breathed loudly with relief. She hasn’t left the general’s side ever since Morrigan brought him to the tent.

“Good.” Azriel breathed. They all watched the pieces of skin slowly patching itself together as Ryo drained the ash from him.

“How bad is it?” He suddenly asked, his eyes fluttering open.

“Your wound or how they kicked our asses?” Rhysand mocked, his eyes laced with worry.

“We barely got alive, but the witches are working in the wounded and the dead.” Y/N spoke, her voice eerie.

“I gave you an order.” Rhys’s tone was harsh, and they all knew that fear was behind his words.

“They weren’t holding the lines, it was a stupid order.” Cassian retorted.

“I’m your High Lord, you can’t ignore my orders.” He protested.

“But you’re not mine, and It was my idea.” Y/N intervened. “Cassian needs to rest, I’m so sorry things ended this way, but I wouldn’t ask if I knew he couldn’t do it, I wouldn’t ask if I knew it wouldn’t help us.” Rhys looked at her with anger.

“He could’ve been killed.” He screamed.

“But I wasn’t.” Cassian tried to stand but a sharp pain sent him back to laying. Rhys immediately went to his side, sighing deeply.

“After everything we went through, I can’t stand the idea of you getting hurt, neither of you. I’m so sorry, Y/N. I’m just scared.” The female kneeled in front of him, squeezing his hands in a reassuring grip, like her mother did to her when she was young.

“It’s okay. We’re all scared, but no one will die. I won’t allow it.” She promised and he trusted her.

“We should leave, everyone needs to rest.” Y/N nodded, getting up and pulling Azriel with her.

“It’s not your fault, you know that right?” He asked.

“It was my idea that left him in that state, Mor had to hold his guts so they wouldn’t spill out of him.” The image was burned to her brain.

“I know, love, I know.” He pulled her for a hug. “You need to rest.”

“I need to check on Eva.” She moved away from him but Azriel held her hand, and the two of them started to walk side by side.

They found Evanore sleeping by the healers section of the camp, her head resting on a certain redheaded male’s lap, his hands slowly combing through her hair.

“How is she doing?” Y/N asked and Eris turned to her, he had a bruise in his eyebrow.

“She’s tired, she worked hard but we don’t have any more dead men, they’re resting and are eager to be on the battlefield again.” The female nodded.

“Eris, promise me that you will take care of her, no matter what.” The male looked at the sleeping female in his lap, so tiny.

“For some reason, the idea of seeing her getting hurt completely shatters my heart, I could never forgive myself if something happens to her.” It was only then that Y/N noticed their intertwined hands.

“Thank you, you’re a good male, Eris Vanserra.” She pulled Azriel away from them.

“What was that?” He asked with curiosity, he never saw Eris being so protective of someone other than his mother.

“They’re mates.” Azriel stopped.

“They what?” He giggled.

“What about I tell you while we have a bath?” She winked and the male followed her to their shared tent.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

He watched her sleeping form, clutched to the sheets and snoring softly, she fought so hard today, she needed to rest. He left to fetch something for her to eat when she woke up, stopping by to see how Cassian was doing.

He found them in the war tent, Amren was there, they quickly exchanged greetings before they focused on the materials in front of them. Amren held the book of breathings while Nesta eyes the bones and stones placed on top of the map.

“So, I just throw it and we find the cauldron?” The female asked and Amren shrugged.

“Something like that.” Nesta grabbed the pieces, closing her eyes and feeling the coldness pierce her skin.

“Think about the cauldron.” Cassian suggested.

“Not only think about it, project your mind towards it. Find the bond that tie you two together.” Amren spoke.

Nesta took a deep breath, the room fell silent, and the temperature fell even more, a cold shiver ran down their spines.

“Should I touch it?” She asked.

“No, find it but don’t interact with it.” Amren instructed.

“Nothing can hurt you here.” Cassian reassured and Nesta seemed to calm down a bit, focusing on that disgusting cauldron, the hunting memories making her terrified, but she needed to keep going.

He got up, despite Azriel trying to get him to sit back, but he walked to Nesta, slowly placing his hand on her lower back, drawing invisible soothing circles, everyone watched as she allowed the touch.

Nesta started to shiver, her hands clutching so hard that her knuckles turned white. “Let go!” Amren ordered, but she just held the stones tighter.

“I need to help.” Feyre said, closing her eyes and entering her sister’s mind, she could see the images, the King, the never ending army, Jurian and she could feel the cauldron.

“NESTA OPEN YOUR HANDS!” Feyre yelled in the tent, again and again until Nesta opened her hands, the bones and the stones forming a circle in the map. Cassian got hold of Nesta, while the others looked in pure horror.

The king has been sending them to the North while he gathered his troops near the Mortal lands, not too far away from the old Archeron property. Once again they had to move.

They shared their knowledge with the other High Lords, Tarquin had suggested that they should rest and think about it tomorrow, Feyre and Rhys seemed deep in a mind to mind conversation while Cassian took Nesta to bed.

Azriel walked to the kitchen, fetching two cups of water and as much food he could carry. As he walked back to his tent, he saw Nesta and Feyre standing in the middle of the camp, pale faces and terrified expressions.

“You can hear it too?” Nesta asked and Feyre nodded, Azriel felt it in a second. Something was deeply wrong.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

Y/N woke up, she could hear something, pulling her somewhere, her feet slowly dragged her outside, dipping in the mud as she went barefoot.

It felt like a presence in the corner of her mind, something was wrong, the hair in the back of her neck prickled and she darted towards the Archeron’s tent. Just in time to see Elain being held by a shadow, tears in her eyes as she tried to scream.

Y/N tried to reach out for Elain, but to no avail, her arms and legs wouldn’t move and she was stuck, being transported through the folds of space, directly to the enemy's camp.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

Taglist: @allison-rosewood-maximoff @devilsfoodcake22 @fieldofdaisiies @valeridarkness @brekkershadowsinger @margssstuff @patdsinner33

#acotar #azriel shadowsinger #sarahjmaas #moonlightazriel #azriel #shadowsinger #azriel x reader #night court #azriel x y/n #velaris #son of the darkness #azriel x you #azriel spymaster #azriel acotar

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niqhtlord01 · 1 year ago

Text

Humans are weird: The fall of Reservoir

From the audio recording of Frin Yuel Retired Artark, Recipient of the Stone of Valor, Hero of the Battle of Reservoir Recordings restricted from public distribution by order of Central Command.

“I have been called many titles over my years of service, but there has been none more insulting to me than the “Hero of Reservoir”.

There was nothing heroic about that engagement; at least not from our side of the battle.

Yes, yes, I know; what madness do I speak against our glorious people to not call us all heroes on the field of battle. Hear this old soldier out and decide after if your judgment is as strong as you think.

We were half way through the first contact war with humanity when we stumbled upon their core world of Reservoir. It was a backwater colony planet that had just transitioned from a colony into a functioning world of their empire when our fleets darkened their skies.

By that time I had been in several intense battles with the humans, but this was the first time we were attacking a well-established metropolitan world of theirs. At best our early skirmishes had been in space or along resource worlds that had their mining operations established.

The orbital battle was over quickly. The human planet had no orbital defense platforms and only a small fleet was present which was quickly swept aside. No sooner had the last of the human ships been destroyed in low orbit above the world did the ground invasion begin.

I remember watching as the first and second wave of our infantry forces detached from the troop carriers and began their descent below the cloud cover. My war host was in the third wave so while we waited for deployment we watched the video feeds of the first and second.

It was not a smooth landing.

The moment they broke the cloud cover they were met with withering barrages of anti-aircraft fire from emplaced redoubts and mobile vehicles. Scores of dropships were violently ripped apart or had their engines damaged and spiraled out to the surface below. I can remember hearing troops in the latter calling out for help right up until the moment they impacted the ground and the feed went silent.

It is not easy to listen to your comrade’s die….. I can still hear them sometimes in my dreams. Even now after all these years I can close my eyes and listen to their tortured souls calling out to us again and again……

……….

Apologies; I got a bit side tracked there.

Eventually the second wave was able to carve out safe landing zones and signaled the third wave to deploy.

We launched with vengeance in our hearts and fire in our bellies. Our one purpose now to avenge our fallen friends and shatter whatever human fools had slayed them.

The humans for their part did not make our task easy. Over the span of several weeks we had to grind their resistance down meter by bloody meter, losing thousands of warriors with the capture of each one of their cities. Yet our resolve was unwavering and though our losses mounted the day finally came when I found myself standing outside the final human bastion of their world.

Even when cornered like vermin the humans refused to surrender. We shelled their city for days, reducing their towers of stone and metal to rubble and yet they only burrowed deeper and became that much harder to dislodge. Vehicles that went into the city were beset on all sides by craven hit and run attacks, while our scouts were ambushed and cut down by well concealed snipers. This went on for several days until our commander had finally had enough.

When the order finally came to storm the city a great war cry was let out from our warriors and we poured into the city. I wish I could say there was some battle plan or larger strategic picture we were following, but the reality was we were storming one building at a time before advancing to the next.

That is where I found my worthy foe.

Within the heart of sector G17 there were reports of a lone human soldier causing untold damage to our attack. I ignored the reports at first, but as the day progressed the reports continued to come in only far worse. Now they said the human soldier had slain a hundred warriors and still stood their ground. By the end of my fourth block cleared I was hearing that an entire cohort had been wiped out and now warriors were avoiding the area.

At this notion of fear spreading through the ranks of my brothers I was filled with a seething rage and made my way to sector G17 to confront this human champion myself. It was not hard to find them, as the trail of bodies led straight to them. As I followed the trail I realized that the reports had not exaggerated the casualty list; if anything they had underestimated the dead.

Standing at the entrance to a metal bunker of some sort stood the foe I sought. They wore power armor standard to their people but damaged in several places. The paint had long since been scorched away by ricochets, their once proud cloak torn in a dozen places and hanging limply from their waist; yet their rifle was still firmly clutched in their hands so tightly I wondered if even the gods themselves could pry it from their grasp.

While I approached the warrior I saw three of my fellow soldiers come forward and try to slay the human first. The first went down with deep hole in their chest where the human’s plasma shot had carved through them. The second warrior used this opportunity to close the distance with the human but with a swift backhand from the power gauntlet their neck was snapped and they collapsed to the ground. The third soldier made it close enough to land a blow against the human, adding to the collection of gashes already dotting the armor. Their combat blade dug deep between the leg joints and the human let out a cry of pain. The third soldier twisted the knife inside the joint, reveling in the victory to come. I watched as the human let their weapon fall from their hands and clasped the third warrior’s head between their mighty gauntlets. In a grueling and morbid motion the human crushed the third warrior’s skull like a grape and let the broken body fall to the ground.

The human stood motionless after the melee, which to my surprise had taken less than a minute to complete. They made to pick up their fallen weapon as they finally registered my presence but the blade wound had done more damage than they expected causing them to tumble to the ground in a loud bang.

I watched for a moment as they crawled towards it in an attempt to bring it to bear before I casually kicked it out of their reach. It was then that more of my warrior brethren began to flood into the area and saw me standing over the human that had done such horrendous damage to our forces. One by one they began chanting my name as if I had been the one to bring the foul beast low and called for me to end their life once and for all; but all I could focus on was the human before me.

Through their visor I saw the face of the human looking up at me. A thin red stream of blood ran from the corner of their mouth with specs of blood dotting the inside of the helmet from where they had coughed it. Their eyes…….even though their body was broken and defeated their eyes never once showed a hint of remorse or pleading as they fixed me with a death glare. If it was possible I half imagine they were trying to kill me with their stare right there and then before I emptied my clip into their chest cavity.

I just stood there with my finger held down on the trigger as round after round of plasma energy burned into them while the surrounding soldiers cheered. The human died half way through the clip but I kept my fingers firmly on the trigger until every shot was emptied.

As you know after that I was given the title “Hero of Reservoir” for I had seemingly killed the human butcher all by myself. There were of course the video feeds from the warriors helmets that came before me that contradicted that sentiment but central command quickly quashed that notion; erasing or restricting what footage there was while fabricating their own that made me out to be the ‘Hero” after all. With the substantial losses they had taken claiming the planet they needed someone they could hoist up and show the homeworld to as a sign of admiration and prowess in our war against the humans.

Like I said before I never cared for the name. Not because it was based on a lie, but from what I discovered when I went to investigate the bunker the human soldier had been so ferociously defending.

It took several explosive charges to pop off the hinges but with a loud thunderous boom the door finally gave way and I led a war party inside. We had expected some sort of redoubt or military bunker and went in with our weapons firing on anything that moved; which was fortunate as the door led into a series of tunnels dotting the city filled with humans.

My fellow warriors were lost to the blood lust and carved their way through the humans as if they were made of paper while I stopped and examined the nearest fallen human.

They were a frail thing, not half the size of a normal human adult. I believe they were called “children” by their cultural standards and were designated as the youth of the species. The child lay huddled in a corner they had attempted to hide in when the breaching charges had gone off but were caught by the explosion nonetheless and died.

As I gently pulled on them to turn them around I saw that the child had been holding something tightly against their chest. When I saw what it was I recoiled and nearly fell over another dead human from my realization.

The child had been clutching a stuffed toy animal, not a side arm as his fellow warriors had believed.

With a grim realization I came to the conclusion that this was not a military bunker or the last vestiges of the human military lurking within the walls of these tunnels. They were human civilians who had been led into the depths of their city in the hopes they could survive the coming battle.

I tried to call off the attack into the lower levels but by then our warriors were lost to the haze of battle. By the end some three hundred human civilians were massacred in that bunker; their bodies sealed within a rocky tomb when we detonated charges to collapse the bunker complex.

That is why I hate being called a hero for that awful battle. I am a pretender, a charlatan, a fraud; held up to justify the deaths on both sides as if a statue of me will someone make us forget what we had done.

The real hero of reservoir died by my hand, giving their life to defend the defenseless.

#humans are insane #humans are space oddities #humans are weird #humans are space orcs #scifi #story #writing #original writing #niqhtlord01 #ai generated art #stable diffusion

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ladylilithprime · 3 months ago

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Day 11: Myth

HIS NAME WAS Hades, one of the six scions of Chronos, and elder brother to Zeus. As Zeus claimed dominion over the skies, and their brother Poseidon claimed dominion over the waters, Hades held dominion over the Earth, above and below, and allowed his siblings and human belief to shuffle him into the position of custodian of the dead. It gave him greater reach, contacts within other pantheons of gods who held sway over death and the dead, and it was his steady calm and patient counsel that soothed Zeus's flighty moods, his stern countenance and solid logic that calmed Poseidon's tempestuous fits of temper, just as their own natures could ease the building pressure of Hades's own temper, slow to build and erupt but all the more devastating when it did. His calm and rock-solid steadiness was what had Zeus bringing him along with Demeter and Hera when a squadron of young godlings from another pantheon calling themselves "angels" descended into Mycenae and took over the bodies of several humans there.

Her name was Persephone, and yet it wasn't. Persephone was the name of the girl, a willowy slip of a thing that had Demeter nearly up in arms from motherly protection. The angel within her was called Castiel, or Commander, and she was the leader of the angel squadron. Persephone's flowing blue chiton and floral crown belied Castiel's warrior's stance and steady command of her troops, and Hades was ashamed to admit that he suffered distraction from the dichotomy of seeing the angel's incadescent glow and prismatic wings overlaying the bright and innocent soul of the girl who hosted her. Twice, Zeus had cause to nudge him back to attention as they talked and argued about whom had jurisdiction in Mycenae when the perpetrators were human souls twisted into something called demons by one of their brethren who had "Fallen from Grace" while the demon's victims were pledged to the gods of Olympus.

The attack of a hydra, held in the sway of several demons to control one beast and too strong for their small gathering to defeat as they were, put a halt to the talks as the matter became more urgent. Many of the angels took flight, some even being led to shelter by Hades's siblings, but Castiel attacked the beast head on with only a silver blade and was struck by one of the hydra's heads and cut off from escape. In desperation, Hades grabbed the felled angel and commanded the earth to swallow them both, carrying them down into the safety of the underworld.

"You're either very brave or very stupid, kore," Hades muttered to the angel under his breath as he drew out the hydra's venom and bathed the wound carefully with clean water.

"An argument could be made for both," Castiel huffed dryly, hissing in pain. "I know how to handle demons. I... do not know how to handle a beast such as that."

"A hydra," Hades supplied, sighing heavily. "One of my cousin Echidna's offspring's welps, though the blackened souls riding within it was new."

"You could see the demons?" Castiel asked sharply, startled.

"Souls," Hades reminded her, and shrugged before gesturing around them to the palace of the Underworld and the shades and spirits flitting and floating about in various tasks. "Being the custodian of souls who have passed beyond the bounds of life is my duty and honor, and so I am rather... attuned to them. The soul of the girl you are inhabiting, for instance."

"It is necessary," Castiel said, though her eyes lowered. "Angels are not physical beings. We were not created to be. In order to act upon the physical plane, to walk among humans in the course of our missions, we must take a willing human vessel to house our Grace. Only the willing," she stressed. "We cannot enter within a vessel without that vessel's permission."

"Person, kore," Hades chided gently. "Your 'vessel', as you call her, is a person. And she is in distress from your injury and being brought within my realm while still alive. Here."

"What is this?" Castiel stared down at the fruit Hades had placed in her hand, head tilted to one side like a curious bird. "A plant of some kind?"

"A pomegranate," Hades explained, taking it back long enough to crack it open for her to get at the red seeds within. "To exist here within the Realm of the Dead while still living, she - you - will need to consume food from this Realm to sustain a connection to this place, artificial as it may be. It will do no harm to either of you, and will lessen her distress."

"How much should I consume?" Castiel asked, staring down at the pomegranate with a small frown. It was adorable, and Hades struggled to remind himself that the face Castiel wore did not actually belong to her, merely borrowed.

"Try eating one seed at a time until you feel the balance of energies shift enough to keep the girl comfortable here, kore," he suggested, a bit helplessly.

"As you say," Castiel said, sounding dubious, but plucked one of the seeds from the creamy yellow flesh of the rind and hesitantly popped it into her mouth, swallowing it whole. She blinked, clearly feeling the shift he had mentioned, and plucked another. "What is that you keep calling me? Koh-rey?"

"Kore," Hades said, ducking his head a little as if he could hide the flushing of his face behind his hair. "It is a word from a local dialect meaning 'maiden'. Given your present, er, compound state, it felt like the easiest form of address when I don't know what I'm meant to call you or the name of your vessel."

"Persephone," Castiel murmured, popping three more seeds into her mouth. "As you said, she is a person. Her name is Persephone. And I am Castiel."

"Hades," he introduced, offering a hand and feeling a sharp spark of fire flicker through him at the touch of Persephone's hand filled with Castiel's Grace as it settled into his. "Pleased to meet you, Castiel."

"I am pleased to meet you as well, Hades," the angel murmured as she ate another seed and finally seemed to settle into ease, Grace and soul existing together with more harmony than before. "And I am grateful for your assistance. I hope this can be the foundation of an amicable relation between our two peoples."

Hades could only nod even as he hoped that wasn't the only thing for which this new rapport could be the foundation.

#rk writes #supernatural fic #suptober24 #sastiel #sam winchester #castiel #greek mythology #hades and persephone #sam winchester is hades #castiel in inhabiting persephone

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